The Curling Tide Draws You In, My Dear
by tempusborealis
Summary: A series of literal drabbles (exactly 100 words) about an AU in which Cas is a lighthouse keeper and Dean is a writer who's paying to stay at the lighthouse while he tries to work on his next novel. In no particular order, they're just little snippets of their life together at the lighthouse.
1. Journey

He'd paid for solitude and no one could say he didn't get what he'd paid for. The lighthouse squatted like a roosting owl among the pine trees in the chilly, gray afternoon light, and Dean felt a shiver skitter along his spine. This was home for the next two months while he worked on his latest novel in the sort of tranquil solitude found only on remote islands off the coast of Maine. The kicker was it was a functional lighthouse, complete with a lighthouse keeper. Dean had been fairly certain those didn't exist anymore, but apparently he was mistaken.


	2. Compliment

Cooking made him feel like he was earning his keep. Not that, you know, he wasn't already compensating the Coast Guard or whoever monetarily, but Castiel worked so hard; Dean felt lazy sitting down writing while Cas buzzed about mending the chicken wire fences so the rabbits didn't get into his rhubarb or taking a wrench to a stubborn lug nut throwing the lighthouse's diffuse, eerie glow off by fractions of degrees (though Cas assured him it made a difference at sea). So when the reserved man complimented the simple meals Dean insisted on preparing, Dean couldn't help but preen.


	3. New

Clarke's Island didn't see much excitement and truthfully that was the way Castiel liked it. For the last few methodical years all that really changed was the tide and the weather, and Castiel relied on that sort of predictability. But Dean… Frankly Castiel hadn't been thrilled his privacy would be all but invaded for two entire months and he'd fought the intrusion tooth and nail. But the other man was quiet, contemplative, lent Castiel's day a little more purpose. He could feel it, the slow unfurling of trust and camaraderie that marked a warmth he hadn't known he was missing.


	4. Born

It started out stilted, but that melted into an easy companionship somewhere around week three. A routine: he'd wake up an hour after Cas' heinous 4AM. By the time Cas finished his morning rounds, Dean had a pot of coffee brewed. As the late autumn approached, he'd taken to settling by the fire Cas stoked in the wee hours and write until lunch. They'd come together quietly then, soaking up the company, and after split until evening. They'd perch by the fire again, Cas with a book and Dean his manuscript. It was downright idyllic and, disgustingly, Dean was content.


	5. Blackboard

Dean tripped over a dusty blackboard the size of a TV tray table in the basement and converted it to his own purposes. Some of his characters were being… stubborn, and the little chalkboard was perfect for diagramming. His protagonist was particularly and problematically elusive. Tapping out a smooth, virgin shaft of chalk from the box Cas had scrounged up, he allowed himself to mindlessly list traits, images, snippets of background ideas. When he came back to himself and read the list, he swore. _Reserved and steely, calloused hands, sharp wit, sharper blue eyes, dark and perpetually tousled hair_. Shit.


	6. Cards

Logs popped and sizzled as Dean poured him another three fingers of whiskey. He accepted the tumbler and held it in his lap, watching the firelight reflect off glass and alcohol. The windows rattled against the gale outside and rain snicked, snapped against the glass, but Castiel felt warmer than he ever had in his entire life. He glanced up, watching Dean deal another hand of gin rummy. Dean thought himself talented at cards; Cas didn't have the heart to confess he'd been raised on card games in a competitive family. He thought maybe he'd let Dean have this round.


	7. Mellow

Around 4:15, Castiel had crept out to perform his morning duties. When he came back – just as peach light was slanting through the lacy white curtains, a relic of housewives past – the dawn revealed Dean sleeping in an awkward position on the couch. Pen tangled in unfeeling fingers and sheaves of paper spread across the floor in the arc they'd found when they'd slid off his lap, he looked incredibly serene; the light curved around and smoothed his now almost youthful features. Castiel thought about waking him, but decided to let the smell of brewing coffee do the job instead.


	8. Museum

Castiel let a large box drop heavily onto the table in front of Dean. It rattled the tableware and nearly sent his pens flying.

"What's this?"

"You asked about our history," Castiel replied plainly.

"I did." Dean eyed the box. "So what's that?"

"Records. Diaries, correspondence, orders. I remembered we had this, thought you might like a look."

Dean had indeed asked, but it had been in passing, an offhand remark he was sure Cas hadn't heard. But apparently he had. And he'd remembered. Their eyes locked and held for a breath, then with a small smile Cas ducked out.


	9. Spring

"Cas?" Dean called, coming around the corner to find Castiel at work, polishing lenses. "Hey, uh, so I woke up with a metal spring sticking straight up out of my mattress. Luckily it missed the goods, but it was close," he chuckled. A pause: "how do we even get a new mattress out here?"

"I'll put in a request, but it'll take a few weeks."

"_Weeks?_"

"We are on an island, Dean."

"Great. I guess it's the couch for me, then." They both glanced over at the tiny loveseat.

"Don't be silly. We can share mine. We're adults."

Adults. Right.


	10. Morals

Castiel was raised in a religious household, though his own faith had evolved as he'd matured. The few remaining fibers of his childhood indoctrination were screaming; the rest of his fibers were taut with thinly veiled arousal. It shouldn't be arousing, not at all, because Dean was snoring rather unattractively less than a foot away from him.

But.

Castiel watched the moonlight dust over his cheekbones. The sheets were pulled up just under his broad, beckoning chest, and his woodsy scent had the conscious man swimming.

Yep, Castiel could feel the morals of his youth flying right out the window.


	11. Jubilant

Cas was not the first resident of Clarke's Island Dean had met. The first was a huge, gray Maine Coon with tattered ears and crooked whiskers who'd slunk up to the dock while Dean unloaded his belongings from the water taxi. The word 'persnickety' came to mind when Dean thought of The Cat. But now it purred like a V8 as Cas tickled his fingers under its chin, closing its eyes in ecstasy. Cas beamed down at the animal, face unmasked and open like a sun-hungry poppy. They basked in each others' company and Dean's chest felt a little tight.'


	12. Rule

Dean's number one rule: avoid complications. It worked for writing, it worked for friendships, it worked for one night stands. The one exception was Sam, and, as it was, neither was big on gestures. So when one day Cas turned to him and asked if he was allergic to anything, explained that he should know in case something happened, Dean found himself panicked. The thing was, though, that he was more freaked out that he _wasn't_ freaked out. He should be running for the hills, but instead he found the thought of Cas knowing such an intimate detail reassuring. Huh.


	13. Empire

The lighthouse and its living quarters were built in the mid-1800s. If there was one thing about places like that, it was that they had a lot of character; Clarke's Island got some of that character, Dean found, from hideous furniture. There was one truly revolting Empire style table, all gilt and gaudy griffins or hippogriffs or whatever the hell they were. Its one redeeming quality was the way the light fell in the early morning. That and the tails of the… things made decent footholds. He'd never admit it, but it was one of his favorite places to work.


	14. Hero

Castiel bought one of Dean's books when he learned he'd be living with an author. "Dean Winchester" had sounded slightly familiar, but he didn't write books Castiel would normally read. He opted for Winchester's first book, written before he'd settled on a genre. At first it was surreal matching the melancholy words he'd read in black and white with the golden man before him, morning sunlight burnishing his short-cropped hair, gilding his clear green eyes and smiling, full lips. Increasingly, though, Castiel caught glimpses of that first protagonist of his – an antihero, really – damaged and skittish under a brave façade.


	15. Climbing

Cas had been accommodating when he asked if he could see what the view from the top of the lighthouse was like. Dean was surprised when instead of the rickety wooden staircase, Cas led him outside.

That's how Dean found himself clinging to the far-too-narrow ladder bolted to the lighthouse's clapboard as if his life depended on it. From between his feet he could see Cas smirking up at him from below (_just in case you fall_, he'd said). Dean was never so glad to haul himself up onto solid footing. The air had the bite of an oncoming storm.


	16. Storm

This chapter (and kind of the one previous, since they come one after the other) is for AnnieWrites, who sent me kind words and requested Dean and Cas watching a storm from the top of the lighthouse.

* * *

Lightning hung heavy in the low-bellied clouds and left a tangible charge of anticipation in the air. Castiel bit his lip, trying to scrape the buzzing there away. Dean sat to his right, arm draped over a bent knee as he gazed at the storm wall rolling inexorably toward them. Waves churned around the rocky coastline and it felt like they were caught in a killing jar, waiting. In that moment he felt over-stimulated, his skin prickly with static and the nearness of Dean and he wanted to scratch it off, shed it and become smooth like a sea-washed boulder.


	17. Lost

"Have you seen my purple pen?" Dean stomped around the den frantically fanning out piles of paper, worry scoring his brow.

"Dean."

"I _just_ had it," Dean bemoaned anxiously.

"_Dean._" He ceased his frenetic motion, wide eyes snapping to Castiel's. The keeper slowly approached him, saw confusion tinged with something a little darker as he came into Dean's personal space. He lifted a hand toward the writer and the other man's chin followed while his eyes stayed glued to Castiel's. The keeper pulled the pen from behind Dean's ear and held it in front of his now flushed face.

"Oh."


	18. Locked

When he cracked his eyes open, he saw the room was bathed in a milky blue. The DVD player was snoozing too, the insipid little disc bouncing along the edges of the screen. His feet were propped up on the coffee table and he could feel the backs of his knees screaming in protest, tight over locked joints. Excellent.

He made to sit up and stretch his limbs, but realized he couldn't move his right arm. Glancing down he saw a tussock of dark hair frosted by the light of the television. Maybe he'd sit for just a while longer.


	19. Muse

Despite the itch under his collarbone telling him to stay put, Dean had to give into the urge to move. He gently leaned Cas against the back of the sofa and shuffled toward the kitchen. Cas had been a trooper, sitting through _Return of the Jedi_ – the best Star Wars movie, which also happened to be Dean's favorite. The thickening cobalt of evening brushed gently over the sleeping man's high cheekbones and shadowed jawline. Dean set a kettle to boil (Cas would be grumpy without tea) and grabbed his beaten notebook. Something about the light was drawing out his muse.


	20. Deserve

No point denying it: winter on Clarke's Island was as brutal as they come, and Dean Winchester had been in no way prepared. Cas had thought it just _hilarious_ when he'd gifted Dean long underwear and flannel (there was a lumberjack joke in there somewhere and Dean was determined to find it). Boston had its low points once the snow began to fall, but the island was both poles at once; stunningly peaceful and beautiful, yet simultaneously harsh and lonely. In a way Dean was coming to understand, though, the cruel, blank winter made you feel like you deserved spring.


	21. Yellow

Prompt donated by lamasgonewild

* * *

Castiel padded into his bathroom. Thin, watery light softly washed over the pastel yellow tiles that, in all truth, were rather ugly but had grown on him in his time here. He scrubbed a hand over his face. It was early, atrociously early, and despite every bone in his body wanting to slide back between those sinfully warm sheets, his body was on a clock. He snatched at his toothbrush in the wall-mounted holder but his fingers swizzled around unexpectedly. Two. Two toothbrushes. When his brain caught up with his hands, he couldn't help the contented flutter in his chest.


	22. Zoo

Prompt donated by lamasgonewild

* * *

Whoever thought opening the lighthouse to the public for Veteran's Day was a good idea should be taken out and shot. If he'd wanted to deal with people he wouldn't have taken this job. But what made this year bearable was the man currently walking a tour through the historical hallways, spinning tales, enrapturing the crowd like Castiel never could. He pointed to a painting and as the group looked away their eyes caught. Dean smiled warmly and shot him a wink over the heads of the tour group and Cas felt his cheeks heat. Maybe it wasn't so bad.


	23. Fear

Prompt requested by lamasgonewild

* * *

Castiel had a love-fear relationship with the sea. It was difficult not to love the waves, the architecture of the coast, and the beauty the sea wrought. But she was a terrible power too, had learned that when she took his father. It was a balancing act, walking that fine line of seafoam between love and fear, and it resulted in a sort of respect. That same respect led him to join the Coast Guard like his father before him. Made him want to sail in defiance of her cruelty and be in the front-row seats to behold her majesty.


	24. Oops

Prompt requested by lamasgonewild

* * *

Where were the god-forsaken dish towels? Castiel scrabbled to find one while keeping his contrite gaze on Dean, a few feet away with a huge splash of red wine down his shirtfront. His hand found cloth and he hurried to press it to Dean's chest.

"Cas, it's okay."

"I am so sorry, Dean."

Dean's hand came up to hold the rag just under Castiel's, fingers brushing his wrist.

"Really, Cas, don't sweat it. I've got plenty of shirts," Dean joked with a chuckle. Castiel was fairly certain he wasn't imagining the rhythmic, calming stroking of Dean's fingers against his skin.


	25. Sugar

Prompt requested by prettyboysintheimpala.

* * *

Exhausted, he hauled himself into the kitchen. A sharp tang was in the air; apples. Flour was everywhere.

"Dean?"

The writer spun around, startled. "Cas!" He fumbled and dropped the dough in his hands, but it landed on the white-dusted countertop. "I thought you were gonna be checking buoys until…" he glanced at the wall clock. "Three. Which it is now." He looked abashed. "I'm… making a pie," he started haltingly, rambling. "You like pie and my mother made a mean pie and I know this week's evals were tough on you. I just wanted to do something for you."


	26. Glove

Prompt requested by prettyboysintheimpala.

* * *

Bare tree branches whipped about, railing against the gray dawn. Castiel observed from the den as he pulled on his jacket. Windy, then. Not for the first time Cas lamented losing his favorite pair of gloves.

Petulantly, he opened the door and was rewarded with a blast of icy air. He cringed, shuffling outside, tugging the door shut, and shoving his hands into his pockets.

They weren't empty like he'd expected. His fingers met buttery leather and something crunchy. A slip of paper.

_Thanks for letting me borrow your coat. Figured you could use these. Don't be stubborn, __**wear them**__._


	27. Inspiration

Prompt requested by prettyboysintheimpala.

* * *

Dean sat with his ankles slotted into the curls of the griffins' tails (he'd decided they were griffins) watching the first snowfall of the season flutter lazily down to earth. Once he'd worked out a few character details – the usual hurdles – words had flown from his fingertips faster and with more ease than ever. He was more productive in his first month and a half here than he ever had been before. There was just something so utterly peaceful (yet oddly energizing) about Clarke's. His heartbeat sped up as he realized it was frighteningly easy to picture himself here indefinitely.


	28. Dream

Prompt requested by prettyboysintheimpala.

* * *

_Calloused, weathered hands skimmed along his sides, over breathless lungs contracting hard in worthless attempts to draw air. Equally chapped lips scratched soft swipes into his throat, the dark tufts between his fingers felt like eiderdown._

_"__**Cas.**__"_

_His own hands wandered across hard muscle and the set palming his body moved, one cupping his collarbone, the other nestled under his ear. Eyes glinted above him in the low light of their bedroom, made his heart stop as rough lips descended to his own._

Panting, he shot up, chest heaving. Fuck. That was the last time he drank tequila before bed.


	29. Hand

Prompt requested by prettyboysintheimpala.

* * *

Somewhere, movement. It brought Castiel fluttering up in swirls from unconsciousness. He cracked an eye open and his sleep-addled brain realized the movement was Dean. Cas peeked up from where his face nestled in his pillow; he watched the strong profile outlined in silvery light, muscles contracting, straining, bursting into action as Dean bolted upright. The writer wiped a hand across his face and forced out a breathy "_Fuck._"

Haltingly, unsure, Castiel reached out. His fingertips met flush, clammy flesh and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin.

"Dean?" A pause. "Nightmare?"

"Not… exactly, no. It's fine, it's nothing. Sleep."


	30. Dancing

Prompt requested by theoncomingmadman.

* * *

Coffeshops were always bustling, so Dean found the crackling susurration from the radio almost comforting as Cas sat in the armchair, tinkering. It was no Zeppelin, but it was better than the aural hemorrhaging popular these days.

The music tumbled into something softly swinging, and Dean recognized the song. Hell. Lisa had insisted they dance to this, moons ago. He remembered because it'd been in public and he'd been flustered and embarrassed because he hated dancing.

Some low, slightly out-of-tune humming drifted over from the wing-back chair and Dean thought that maybe his opinion on the matter might be changing.


	31. Dock

Prompt requested by Spiderninjapirate22.

* * *

They'd returned from their grocery run to find Clarke's blushing with warm autumn light. Dean declared it an afternoon off and handed him a beer before Cas could even protest.

Leaning back in the Adirondack perched on the dock, he knocked back the last of his bottle and reached for another, popping the cap off on one of the chair's slats. The breeze ruffled his hair and he glanced over at Dean; the other man's gaze was already fixed attentively to him. Despite the languid weather, Castiel found his heart-rate anything but and he took a swig to calm himself.


	32. Affront

Cas shivered into the welcoming warmth as he knocked snow off his boots. Dean stood with a phone pressed to his ear.

"You wouldn't like it." Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, it's the middle of goddamn winter, for starters." He pulled a face. "No, it's not just _cold_, Sam. And besides, I can't subject Cas to you, that's not fair."

Castiel pulled off his coat. "Your brother?" He could hear Sam's tinny reply.

"_Is that your roommate?_"

"Yes," Dean huffed in reply to both.

"Sam's welcome here," Cas returned, loud enough for Sam to hear.

"_Then it's settled!_"

"Bitch."

"_Jerk._"


	33. Blood

Sam Winchester was the tallest human he'd ever met. It was difficult to see the family resemblance between the two brothers, but their interactions made their relationship clear.

"Cas, this is my younger sister, Sam," Dean began, smug.

"You're hilarious, Dean."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Sam. Dean speaks of you often."

Sam pumped his hand firmly, grin white and wide. "All terrible things, I'll bet."

"On the contrary, he's quite proud of you," Cas revealed with a smirk. He could hear Dean making outraged little noises.

"Okay, okay, let's get your bags inside, Samantha. It's freezing out here."


	34. Letters

_Dean,_

_Quite pleased with your progress; sabbatical certainly serving you well! Editor and I going through draft of first half. Looking really good so far, kid. Be interesting to see what you do with the protagonist, Castor. Great characterization, really jumps out from the page, you know?_

_Hear you're asking to stay another few weeks. We want to set up some meetings, but as long as you can come down for those it won't be a problem. Can't imagine why you'd want to be up there for winter, though. You're crazy. Coast Guard lackey okay with you staying longer?_

_Pam_


	35. Subtle

There was something about Dean. His brother had always had a certain melancholia about him, the air of a child grown up too fast. Here, though, Dean was unrecognizable. He looked his thirty-odd years; the wrinkles around his eyes came easy, warm and his laugh even moreso. It was... odd, but _right_ at the same time. Like this was the Dean he was always meant to be. Maybe it was the salty air, or the bitter cold that broke everything to pieces before freezing them into new patterns of old shards, or something else entirely, but Dean was actually… happy.


	36. Heat

Prompt requested by happywilkie

* * *

Winter had a way of drawing attention to heat.

Coffee mugs cupped in stiff morning fingers. Skin flushed from the fire in the hearth. A full stomach after a hearty meal and a few fingers of Jack. Prickly shivers racing across skin in the almost-too-hot shower after a jaunt outside. Blasts from behind oven doors incubating seasonal favorites. Sheets and pillows in the muzzy first light warmed by another body in a way electric blankets could just never get right.

Heat became routine, became comfort. It begot a different heat entirely, blossoming in bony chests, blushing cheekbones, and goosebump Braille.


	37. Jealous

This was requested by someone, but it's been a while since I updated (I am sorry about that! I was in a sort of slump) and between the request and now I seem to have lost the name. But let me know if it was you and I'll credit you!

* * *

The snowstorm outside had nothing on Dean's mood. Things had been amazing all afternoon, but in the comfortable, toasty afterglow of a hearty meal Sam and Cas had started talking.

Three hours later they hadn't stopped.

At first Dean was heartened to see two people he… cared for… getting along, but now he just felt like a third wheel. It was just that they were… they were both so smart and he was just a fiction writer. Truthfully, he was the most uncomfortable he'd ever felt in the living room he knew so well. He didn't like it one bit.


	38. Brood

Dean was sulking. Sam felt a little bad; he and Castiel had been discussing new understandings of maritime law for probably too long, if the closed-off look in Dean's face was anything to go by. This was (sort of) Dean's house and he should make more of an effort to include him. But it was kind of weird – his brother was acting bizarrely possessive of Cas' space. Sam supposed he should be grateful, though, to the man who seemed to have taken in his stray brother. It was a blessing for someone to take care of Dean when Sam couldn't.


	39. Music

It was strange, really. He'd never had much affection for rock in particular – he didn't dislike it, but he'd take a nice Bob Dylan folk tune or Simon & Garfunkel ballad over classic rock any day. But as time wore on, Cas found himself turning the radio dial aimlessly, searching for something he wasn't quite hearing. It was only when Dean would squawk in protest, slap his hand away from the knobs, and sing out of tune, loud and brash, to AC/DC or Pink Floyd he felt like he could settle back into his armchair, hearing something agreeable at last.


	40. Wasted

Soft flannel stretched over narrow shoulders stood rinsing out glasses, humming whiskey-low. It was late; they'd broken out the Jameson, killed the bottle, and Sam'd slumped off to bed. Dean shuffled behind Cas, reaching around to pull a paper towel, but misjudged, ending up snug against Cas' back. Which wouldn't've been a problem if the alcohol and quasi-flirting they'd been doing all night hadn't made him half hard. All that was forgotten, however, when Cas rotated his hips once, deliberately. Everything froze. Only when Cat knocked over a cluster of beer bottles did they move, purposefully avoiding each other's eyes.


	41. Afterlife

He'd died and gone to hell. That was it, that was the answer to the pounding in his head and the clenching nervousness in his chest. Cas wasn't sure which was worse, the fact that he'd drunk enough whiskey to drown a dog, or the fact that he'd all but propositioned the only friend he'd had in years, a very straight friend, and probably ruined this entire thing they had.

What the hell was he thinking?

He wasn't even gay! He'd never been attracted to men before. But even as he thought it, he knew Dean was different. Fucking hell.


	42. Fit

Dean led Sam up the stairs. "So this is upstairs. Here's the bathroom," he indicated the door on the right then pointed left. "And here's your room." He turned to his brother. Crap. Sam had his thinking face on. "What?"

"There are two bedrooms."

"They teach you how to count at Stanford?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "We can totally share, you know. I don't want to force you on Castiel with how you snore," he joked smugly.

"Har har. Don't worry about it, we've got it covered."

Sam didn't have to know they'd unwrapped the new mattress just for him.


	43. Hope

When Dean rolled over the next morning, he was alone. He tried to tamp down the disappointment, but a hot rake of rejection scraped at the inside of his ribcage.

He could forget the pass Cas made at him. They were drunk, that sort of thing happened, they could move on.

But – whispered a small, traitorous part of him – what if he was hoping Cas had actually meant it?

That was beyond dumb. He wasn't gay, what did he care if a guy showed interest in him? But even as he thought it, he knew Cas was different. Fucking hell.


	44. Ends

Cas had seen Sam briefly in the morning, bidding him safe travels as he made his way back to Stanford. Unfortunately, Castiel wasn't in the best of moods, and he feared his farewell had been lacking; Sam was good company and Cas was truly sorry to see him go.

It also meant he was losing his buffer.

Dean had taken Sam to the mainland in the motorboat. Rosy gold light peppered the living room through the lace curtains. It was nearly dinner time and Dean hadn't returned. He prepared himself a solitary meal: he wasn't expecting Dean back anytime soon.


	45. Remorseful

He knew he'd been petty, leaving and staying out like that. After taking Sam to the airport, he'd grabbed a burger and then found the nearest bar. Truthfully, he needed space to think – without the spectre of a mortified Cas making himself scarce.

He couldn't deny things just… clicked with Cas. Nor could he deny he'd taken more notice of Cas' clear, intelligent eyes, his square jaw framed by stubble, the way his shirts stretched over his shoulders lately.

When he slipped into bed next to Cas later that night, he knew he was where he was supposed to be.


	46. Space

As it turned out, Castiel needn't have worried. The next morning, Dean was all jokes as he made his coffee, all traces of awkwardness gone, and it seemed like Dean was – mercifully – going to let the matter slide.

So why was he disappointed?

He was beyond grateful they could just forget about it, but it had opened doors. It'd created a chasm of expectation inside his chest, yawning and wide, that completely blindsided him. More frightening still was Castiel's suspicion that Dean would fill its cracks and crevices perfectly.

But Dean was here, was staying. For now this was enough.


	47. Open

"Pass the pepper?" Cas queried, distracted, reaching for his glass of cheap, spicy Cabernet that paired surprisingly well with Dean's simple meatloaf. He was met with silence lingering long enough to draw his attention upward.

And there was Dean, sitting there, looking for all the world like he belonged at the stocky farmhouse table on this little island in the dead of winter, steady gaze sure in impossible measures of something quiet and breathtaking.

Then Dean blinked, shuttering that curious look; he handed over the shaker with deliberate fingers that Castiel desperately wanted to snatch and cradle like tamed doves.


	48. Tactile

"Don't worry, it's simple. Here." Castiel settled behind him; for a heart-stopping moment, strong hands fluttered at his hips, then moved to circle his wrists. That was no better.

_It's much better_, insinuated a voice he pointedly ignored.

Cas guided Dean's hands, placing one on the steering wheel, one on the throttle.

"Boats are much like cars, in principle," he continued, his too-hot palm pressing Dean's into the shift firmly, increasing their speed. The biting chill of sea spray and wind as they cut through the water was almost as exhilarating as the feeling of Cas' heat at his back.


	49. Waiting

You've all done such a wonderful job being patient and waiting for this. So here's a little 100 word drabble for this set, but there's a longer chapter here because I love all of you who are reading and I've been waiting for this just as long as you have.

* * *

A low voice from behind startled him. "Dean?"

"Couldn't sleep, just looking at the moon. Go back to sleep," he soothed, still watching the quiet serenity of the snow from their window.

He felt a warm presence at his side; Cas had sidled up to him, gazing out just the same.

It was in that moment everything clicked. Before he could think, he leaned over. Cas turned, and it was the most natural thing to brush their lips together. Cas smiled gently and pulled away.

"Come back to bed?"

He easily returned the smile, heart racing. "I'll be right there."


	50. Dust

Morning light spilled in, catching motes of dust midair. Dean slid toward consciousness and stretched. There was a deep satisfaction thrumming through him. He frowned when he realized he was alone.

The wooden stairs creaked with the cold under his feet. Cas was at the counter, stirring his coffee.

"Morning."

Cas turned and gave Dean a small smile. The air was thick with nervousness, excitement, expectation. Cas looked down. "I'm going to make the rounds with the boat. Want to come?"

"Ha. No." It was ten below. "Stay warm out there," Dean said, tugging Cas' buttons casually with one hand.


End file.
